Closing the Case
by Protector of the Gray Fortress
Summary: This is a novelization of the ending of the 2002 'Hound of the Baskervilles' made by the BBC. Itis a fun read even if you have not seen it. Written for KCS, who understands Holmes and Watson better than Doyle himself did.


_**Watson. **_

Leaving Sir Henry with Dr. Mortimer, I called for a horse. One was swiftly brought, a great black, powerful thing, eager to be afoot. Thanking providence that the late Sir. Charles had kept a sufficient amount of equestrians, I mounted and dug my heels into the beast urging it forward. The great muscles bunched beneath me and we sped out into the darkness of the moor.

I am considered a fair horseman but so eager was my mount that I found it almost too difficult to keep hold. But I dared not slow its' pace…Holmes had gone in pursuit of the madman Stapleton with only Lestrade at his side. And though I had faith in the inspector as a policeman, I did not wish to entust to him the life of my dearest friend.

At last the dim lights blinked into being through the gloom, when I was within a few feet of the door, I pulled my horse to a wrenching halt and sprang down, bursting through the door. I paused just inside, listening, praying for some sound.

Voices reached my ears, and with a great lift of the concern on my shoulders, I recognized it as that of Holmes, lecturing both Lestrade and Stapleton on the points of his deduction. Stapleton's voice answered him, mocking, but the tone of the Archaeologist's voice was not that of triumph.

I hurried down the steps to the dining room which was still set with the remains of the Christmas dinner shared by Stapleton and Sir Henry. Stapleton, was seated at the table, subdued, his hands cuffed before him. Lestrade sat in the corner, listening with rapt attention to Holmes, his revolver trained on his prisoner.

Hearing my footsteps, Holmes met me at the foot of the stairs, his eyes sharp with concern.

"He's alive," I gasped, answering his unspoken question about Sir Henry. "Dr. Mortimer is with him…have you found Mrs. Stapleton?"

Holmes blinked and his face fell slightly, "No."

He had forgotten her in his pursuit of Stapleton.

I swallowed, and repocketed my revolver, sprinting back up the steps. I would find he, I had to find her…for we had no seen her in the house when Stapleton and Sir Henry were at dinner. There was no telling what the fiend had done to her.

I searched the house quickly and found nothing, then moved on to the outer buildings. I kicked in the door of the fifth one and stopped…I had found Mrs. Stapleton…but he had gone farther than any of us had supposed.

Stapleton had beaten her…and in his rage…had killed her.

_**Holmes**_

The door to the dining room burst inward and Watson stormed in, his face red with fury, his eyes blazing. He started for Stapleton, and the Archaeologist rose to his fee, only to meet Watson's fist.

The violent right hook drove Stapleton back into the table. I got to my feet in an attempt to calm my friend, my heart going out to him. It did not take my deductive powers to realize that he had found Mrs. Stapleton, and the fact that he, a doctor, was not with her tending to her, told quite clearly that we had come too late to help her.

Before I could get to him, Watson had drawn his revolver, cocked it and held it to Stapleton's head. His teeth were drawn back in a snarl and I knew that in that instant of icy rage he would have no compunctions about firing.

Neither would I, for a fact, Stapleton was as evil a villain as I had ever come across. But the cool voice in my head objected to this, knew that we could not be both hunters and executioners. So I gripped Watson's wrist and forced the gun.

"Watson!" I shouted warningly as he fought me, struggling to right his aim.

"Holmes." He growled back, his voice filled with that terrible anger and the despair at the terrible things this man had done. "NO!"

This man was worthy of death, and if any man was qualified to judge such things it was Watson. But it could not be done this way, and I knew that my friend would think less of himself if he shot the fiend in cold blood. I would not allow him to do it, even if only to preserve his character.

Our struggle had taken us away from Stapleton and Lestrade so I did not see when our prisoner made his move. I only heard Lestrade's grunt as his own revolver connected with his skull.

Then I watched as Watson's eyes widened in alarm and he opened his mouth to shout a warning even as he slackened his grip on the revolver.

Too late I half turned to see Stapleton with the inspector's pistol aimed directly at us, then my attention was arrested as the retort of the weapon filled the room, and Watson was flung back against the plastered wall…the dark color of his blood splattering the white surface.

Stapleton fled the room, still holding the revolver and I was too shocked to stop him. my grip around Watson's wrist became one of support as my Boswell slid slowly down the wall, leaving a terrible trail of blood behind him, his pale face a grimace of stony control.

"Oh my God!" I gasped, clutching at his coat with my free hand, his legs gave way completely and he was seated on the ground. His own hand, the one that had been holding the revolver only a moment before, was now clutching my arm convulsively.

It was a shoulder wound, and had missed the bone. As I touched it lightly Watson gasped and braced his head against the wall, his teeth clenched.

And still his thoughts were on Stapleton for he spoke in a voice tight with strain. "Get after him!"

I hesitated, looking at the door Stapleton had exited from and then back at Watson. if I did not go after him, than all of our work would have been for nothing. But how could I leave my friend here, wounded?

He gave me a determined glare and his hazel eyes spoke more eloquently than his words. He wanted Stapleton caught…more than anything, and he was a doctor, he knew better than I the extent of the damage that the bullet had caused.

"Go on!" he urged, in a slightly stronger voice, which I had no doubt was for my benefit more than his.

I swallowed and going against the higher instincts of loyalty and concern, I followed the lesser ones, those of the hunt. I rose to my feet, pulling my own revolver from my pocket and started after Stapleton.

He would no doubt head across the mire, in hopes of losing any pursuit in its depths. Watson had told me in his reports that the man was quite confident that he knew it better than anyone. it was his haven and the logical place for him to go…so I went that direction.

After only a few minutes I heard his gasping breaths ahead of me, he was having difficulty running with cuffed hands. Good. I could catch him up and then return to tend to Watson.

I spotted his dark, skeletal form in front of me, sprinting nimbly between the tufts of heather and grass, around the pools of peat. His hands still clutched the revolver.

I quickened my pace, ahead was an open patch of ground that would make it easy for me to overtake him.

I was all out running by the time I reached it…and so did not have time to check my speed.

I felt a cry of terror rise in my throat as what I had supposed to be solid ground give way beneath my feet and I found myself up to my elbows in one of the thick bogs. On impulse I scrambled about me for purchase and found none, my momentum had carried me to the very center of the pool.

I was trapped…and the approaching sound of footsteps sealed my fate.

Stapleton strolled casually back into view, unhurried now that he realized my predicament. He was grinning eerily, his face skull like.

"Grips like the devil dosen't it?" I shuddered at the sound of his voice, and raised my revolver to fire.

A dull snap filled the air as the hammer hit an empty barrel ,and only then did I realize that I had used all my bullets on the hound.

Stapleton smiled outright at this and drew closer, Lestrade's revolver grasped in his able, bony hands.

I dropped my useless weapon and grasped at the roots of a gnarled, stunted tree that hung over the bog, my own harsh breathing filled my ears, my fingers brushed the slippery roots.

"But you shouldn't struggle." Stapleton said in that calm, cool voice, as though he were giving a lecture on his butterflies. He seated himself on an overturned log, positioned conveniently before the bog. "Try to stay calm."

I turned to my left, gripping at a thick tuft of grass, tugging, but from my position I did not have the leverage or the strength to pull myself out. I had sunk deeper, the thick black mud covering my chest entirely. And all the while his terrible voice sounded, drilling my own helplessness into my mind.

"The best way to get out of there is to lie down. That way you distribute your weight across the surface more evenly."

I looked around desperately for something to use to my advantage…but there was nothing, panic rose in my chest, the mud was touching my chin.

"The odds however are very much against you." Stapleton mused, his eyes shining at the prospect. "I've seen so many moor ponies drown like this." He laughed and slowly raised the gun.

He was going to take his own satisfaction in shooting the man who had ruined him…and then he would let the mud take my body…unknown, hidden for all time.

He would be free…perhaps even go back and finish off Watson and Lestrade in the same manner.

"I suppose the kindest thing would be to put you out of your misery." He said in mock sympathy…as though I was one of the ill fated moor ponies. I stupid thoughtless creature…I had been thoughtless…flushed in the success of my own victory.

His lips drew out in a long, thin smile of pleasure and I marveled at the heartless way in which he raised the gun and aimed it directly at my head. Unlike Watson…so very unlike what my Boswell had attempted to do not fifteen minutes ago…how to heaven I wished I had let him carry out the deed.

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes," Stapleton said, with the cordiality of a stranger in the street wishing you good day. I glared at him, completely helpless…immobilized. His finger tightened on the trigger…and a shot rang through the air.

I jumped and watched in astonishment as Stapleton's head jerked back from a perfect shot through the brow. He went as limp as a rag doll and fell slowly sideways, a small hiss of air escaping his lips…and didn't move again.

I could have cried in relief as a familiar warm voice reached my ears.

"The problem now…is how to get you out."

I jerked my head around to see Watson, rounding the knoll I had just come over, a smoking revolver in his hand.

He tossed it down and came to the edge of the bog, his eyes scanning me with the scrutiny of a physician, checking that I was not hurt.

It was himself he should be worrying about. He had placed only a rudimentary bandage on his shoulder, and from his pale, strained face it was obvious that the blood loss and the pain had not yet subsided.

He took no notice however and knelt beside the bog, and began to take off his coat, shrugging it off one arm and then more gingerly off the other, biting back a moan as the movement jarred his injury.

He took the great, black coat in his right hand and swung it towards me. It over-passed me completely and he pulled it back and swung again, grunting with the effort and from the agony of his shoulder.

This time it struck the mud just in front of me and I coughed, turning my head away. I was in nearly past my chin. I reached out with a shaking hand and gripped the material.

Watson saw me take a firm hold and braced himself, gripping his end tightly.

"Now," he grunted, beginning to pull. "to put my tailor to the test."

He backed up slowly, groaning, his efforts pulling me from the bog by slow degrees. My other hand came free and I gripped the coat with it as well. The mud gripped me, as though reluctant to let go, but Watson kept up a steady tug.

Finally I felt solid ground beneath my elbows and with a sudden frenzy of energy, wriggled free dragging myself forward the rest of the way.

Watson, settled back on his elbows and looked at me as we both panted for breath.

At last I gave him a shaky grin and gasped out. "Three cheers for Saville Row."

My friend gave a small, exhausted noise of either agreement or amusement and fell back limply onto the heather, his right hand still gripping the coat, his left upheld…covered in blood.

I took several deep lungfulls of air and rolled onto my back, reveling in the feeling of the blessedly solid earth beneath me.

After a few minutes I got to my feet and lifted him to his, taking his good arm around my shoulder, his legs were wobbly and his head lolled, the last of his energy spent from my rescue.

But my staunch, faithful friend kept his feet, and we made our way unsteadily towards Merripit house and Lestrade, comforted by the solidity of the other.

_**A few days later**_

_**Watson**_

I gazed at the photograph, which showed Holmes and myself standing before the hound as it hung from the rafters of Sir Henry's stables.

The train swayed gently as Holmes and I sat across from each other in the dining car, our meal finished, speeding along the track back to London, which I for one would be very glad to return too.

Holmes was hidden behind the morning's paper, though I knew he was not reading it. He rustled it slightly and peered around it rather hesitantly, clearing his throat.

"I have a box for 'Les Hugenots' tonight." He said, trying to appear casual.

I glared at him over the photograph and said nothing.

He waited, then went on, "I thought a little dinner at Marcini's on the way…"

The train continued to rattle along the tracks, I set down the photograph and picked up my glass, taking a sip. Holmes sighed and went back to his paper, his brows creased in worry.

This case had been a terrible one, and had brought to light many things that I did not know about Holmes even after many years. I was shaken and uncertain. And again I recalled the question Holmes had posed to me earlier in the case, half in jest.

_Trust me Watson…you do trust me?_

"The answer to your question is no."

I spoke without ceremony waiting for his reaction.

Holmes' eyes leaped to my face in surprise and he frowned.

"No what?"

I met his gaze fully. "No I don't trust you…but…Marcini's would be nice." I smiled.

Holmes' stern face softened and he nodded slightly, going back to his paper, satisfied that all was well again between us.


End file.
